


Hold me close love, and don't let go

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bathing/Washing, Geralt carries Jaskier everywhere, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sexual Assault, and Geralt abides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: A familiar hesitant sound reached his ears as if muffled by layers of cotton, his name, he realized as an afterthought. The noise repeated. He still couldn’t breathe. Why was everything so blurry? Oh, he was crying, right.A gentle cautious hand was laid on his shoulder, stilling him in his frantic pacing. The touch was nothing like the rough bruising grip from before. The glaring difference was like a breath of fresh air, a lifeline thrown to him as he drowned in the deep vastness of a raging ocean.“Jaskier?” the Witcher tried again, uncertain.OrIt's up to the Witcher to rescue his bard when old demons from the past come back to haunt him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 1312





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the end notes for possible trigger warnings!!
> 
> I know I'm not supposed to be writing this, since I still have a multichapter fic to finish for which I've yet to write the last chapter. But I couldn't help it. Sorry! That last chapter is gonna come right after though, I promise!

The tavern whooped in joy as Jaskier struck the final chord of the jig. Some men slammed their tankards on the wooden tables, chairs rocking back as they clamored for more music.

The bard took it all in stride, brandishing his flashiest grin and extending his arms sideways before dipping into a dramatic mock bow with a flair of his hand. A few barmaids and young girls giggled at his antics and he shot them a wink before picking up with another song.

The atmosphere inside the room was perfect for a lively performance, and the small but steadily increasing pile of coins was a herald for a very successful night. He could already taste the honeycakes he’d be gobbling up for breakfast come morning. Might even gift the Witcher with one if the oversized brute kept his judgy eyes to himself (sweets are a necessity, not a prodigality Geralt, honestly).

He shot a glance at the man himself, who was sitting in a corner booth in deep negotiation with a lanky man in raggy clothes. They were discussing a contract, something about a cluster of drowners that kept chasing off the fishermen, and ironing out the details of the pay while Jaskier worked on earning some coin on the side.

The subject of his thoughts then turned his head and met Jaskier’s gaze, arching an eyebrow in amused inquiry; he’d probably felt someone watching him with those damn witchery senses of his. Jaskier averted his eyes, letting them fall back on the small crowd that had gathered to watch him perform. Claps matched the tempo of the melody as he started in on the lyrics, people trying to sing along in various degrees of sobriety.

He was about to hit the chorus for the second time when his eyes caught on a familiar face.

He froze, fingers missing the strings for the next chord as the man’s mouth broke into a predatory smile, eyes beaming with undisguised malice when he realized he’d captured the bard’s attention.

A torrent of memories he had locked away a long time ago suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind, drowning out everything else in its tide. A weight set on his lungs, crushing and squeezing and suddenly making it very hard to breathe. He needed to get out of there. Air, he needed air.

The tavern had broken out into shouts of protest at the lack of music by then, but the bard could not hear them as he frantically pushed past the sea of people and all but ran towards the back door. Laying his entire weight against the wooden frame, he pushed it open and stumbled outside.

Finally away from the commotion of the tavern and _him,_ he leaned against the brick wall and took a blessedly cool breath of the night’s fresh air, trying to still his thoughts. He attempted to put all those memories back in the tidy boxes they had sprung from so unfairly, and to pack them away where hopefully he wouldn’t have to look at them again.

Jaskier had lost his lute somewhere along the way, probably laid it down on a table inside. He couldn’t remember. He’d have to back for it soon, lest someone try to nab it from him. He was moderately sure Geralt wouldn’t let that happen though, so maybe he could just stay outside for a few more minutes? He really didn’t want to go back in. _He_ might be there, and _he_ was the last person Jaskier wanted to see right now.

Unfortunately, fate didn’t seem to want to side with the bard, as the door swung upon again and the person who Jaskier had spent the last minute trying to purge from his mind strolled out.

Jaskier immediately pushed away from the wall, trying to recover some of the personal space lost with the man’s appearance.

The other man’s eyes twinkled with mischief and delight as he laid eyes on the bard, all alone in a shady back alley. It was the perfect opportunity.

He circled the bard, caging him in against the wall as he drew closer. The younger man took small steps backwards as the other advanced, trying to maintain a steady distance between them.

“Julian,” he drawled, the strong nauseating smell of booze oozing off him in tidal waves. “Long time no see.”

Jaskier stayed silent. It’s not that he particularly wanted to, he had got no shortage of things he would very much like to spit out at the other man. He’d made whole list in fact. A list that had been composed over the course of several years, first of abuse and then of failed attempts to forget about said trauma. But, just like back then, the words froze deep in his throat, perishing in silence before they could ever taste the light of day.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he continued on as Jaskier’s back finally hit the wall, running out of space to put between them. The other man smirked at that, a greedy nasty upturn of his mouth that turned Jaskier stomach. He leaned even closer, but the bard couldn’t back away further now, he was at the end of his rope.

He looked at the man’s eyes. His irises were the coldest icy blue he’d ever seen, chilling Jaskier to his core.

He could feel the heavy breaths reeking of ale and other strong liquors soft against his face, and gulped, turning his head to the side to escape the smell. But nothing was about to save him from this, no one was coming.

“Marko,” his voice cracked on the last syllable, panic and anxiety showing through. The choked sound made the man’s smile widen even more.

“I’ve missed you, little bird,” he was nearly pressed against Jaskier’s front now. “Things just haven’t been the same since you flew away.”

Marko dipped his head low, aiming for somewhere in Jaskier’s face, but the bard slung his head back, hitting the brick wall with the back of his skull. Stars burst behind his eyes, pain blooming as a few humorless dry chuckles reached his ears.

Suddenly the air was too thin again, which was strange because he was outside, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force his lungs to cooperate and it seemed as though invisible walls were closing in on him. The impenetrable and immovable barrier of Marko’s body was the worst of them all.

He tried to step to the side, regain some of that precious distance he’d lost, but a hand settled on his arm, just above the elbow, bruising and arresting his movement before he could complete it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Marko hissed, voice turning vicious as the hold he had on Jaskier’s arm tightened. Jaskier winced and tried to pull away, but only succeeded on having his other arm caught in Marko’s other hand.

It was too much, the walls wanted to crush him alive, all the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere. “Let me go,” he snapped, internally thanking Melitele for the miraculous steadiness and firmness in his voice.

The sudden outburst seemed to catch the other man by surprise, but he quickly recovered, expression souring and smirk morphing into a snarl as his grasp on Jaskier’s arms grew impossibly tight. That would definitely bruise.

Another voice rang out then, rage acutely palpable in its tone, “What the fuck is this?”

The overflowing contempt almost made Jaskier shrink back on himself, but then the familiar timbre echoed in his head, calming his thoughts and making the restrictive walls recede a bit. Relief washed over him like water over a muddied window when he finally connected the voice to the person.

Jaskier immediately turned his head and spotted Geralt by the door. The other man stood a couple of feet away from them, a storm raging in his eyes as they settled on Marko’s hands. His nose twitched as his mouth downturned in a disgusted frown. He’d probably scented the stench of alcohol and weeks old unwashed clothing with a tang of urine. Yeah, Jaskier could smell a lot of things this close to the source too.

Marko didn’t seem to find the sudden appearance of the other man of much concern though, barely sparing Geralt a glance as he snapped, “Mind your own business.”

The Witcher stiffened and clenched his jaw, his stance taking on a much more hostile tone, readying for a fight. He looked positively enraged, Jaskier hoped it wasn’t because he’d compromised the contract by rushing out to rescue his sorry arse again. He really didn’t want to get told off by Geralt after he got rid of Marko, or worse yet, being left to his own devices.

“I am,” Geralt growled, voice lowering to sub zero temperatures.

That finally got Marko to turn his head and examine the other man with more attention. His face took on a derisive expression as he looked Geralt over, probably figuring out who he was.

“Fuck off, mutant,” he sneered. A muscle twitched in Geralt jaw at that, almost imperceptibly, but otherwise, he displayed no other reaction.

Geralt might have developed tolerance to the constant insults shot his away, Melitele knows how many times he’d had to hear them during his long years on this earth, but Jaskier hadn’t.

He’d been working his ass off to turn the public’s perception on the Witcher in fact; help them see what he did every day. So, he was much less forgiving whenever some stick-in-the-mud with his head up his arse resorted to pea-brained slander.

The sudden flair of indignation and outrage on Geralt’s behalf fueled the bard’s impulse to shove Marko off.

The sudden push caught the man off guard, and he released his hold on Jaskier as he stumbled back, unbalanced. Once he recovered his footing, he turned to shoot a furious look at the bard, lips curling up to bare his teeth.

“You stupid whor—” he started to say, raising his arm in a fist. Jaskier shut his eyes on instinct and flinched back, anticipating the blow. The familiarity of the situation struck him in an amused kind of way.

The sound of a fist hitting flesh resonated through the air, but curiously Jaskier didn’t feel the well-known bite of a firmly landed punch. He opened his eyes in surprise, finding Marko sprawled out on the floor a few feet away and Geralt occupying the place where he’d stood before. The Witcher’s eyes flashed with fury.

Marko rose from the floor, blood pouring from his nose and staining his jerkin. His eyes were spitting venom as he growled at the Witcher, blinded by rage as he charged forward in a graceless and blundering move.

Geralt easily dodged and countered Marko’s fury-fueled attack, landing another solid punch on his stomach that left him gasping for breath on the floor once again. He took longer getting back up that time.

When he did though, he seemed to reevaluate his situation.

Now, Marko could be impulsive and bull-headed, but he wasn’t exactly stupid, he knew he was in over his head. He had to know that his best option was retreating, and from the look on his face, that was the conclusion he had just arrived to. With a last derisive look shot Jaskier’s way, he slid back into the bustle of the tavern, disappearing from sight.

He was gone, but not really, because his being here opened doors and windows in Jaskier’s head that he couldn’t close now no matter how much he tried to. And because he wouldn’t be gone for long; he’d seen Jaskier, he knew the name he went by now, he’d come back. All the work he’d put in for a blank slate and new life was for naught.

Panic was creeping back up on him again, stealing the air right from lungs and gripping his heart, which tried to race away from the feeling, pumping up to three times the normal rhythm. His vision tunneled, images getting distorted from being filtered through the sheen of water gathering in his eyes.

He’d missed the initial annoyed look the Witcher shot his way. He had also started to say something, but the meaning of the words was lost on Jaskier. He couldn’t think, couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Geralt fell silent and frowned, the annoyed look on his face melting into a confused and concerned expression as the acrid scent of terror escalated in the air instead of easing, now that the danger had passed.

The bard was pacing in small circles, hands fidgeting at his sides as he tried to suck air into his lungs. The Witcher approached him slowly, hands spread and held up in an unthreatening gesture, broadcasting his nonaggressive intentions. It bore an uncanny resemblance to how one would approach an injured wild animal, Jaskier noted as sort of a detached thought.

A familiar hesitant sound reached his ears as if muffled by layers of cotton, his name, he realized as an afterthought. The noise repeated. He still couldn’t breathe. Why was everything so blurry? Oh, he was crying, right.

A gentle cautious hand was laid on his shoulder, stilling him in his frantic pacing. The touch was nothing like the rough bruising grip from before. The glaring difference was like a breath of fresh air, a lifeline thrown to him as he drowned in the deep vastness of a raging ocean.

“Jaskier?” the Witcher tried again, uncertain.

The sound rang clearer in Jaskier’s head, the familiar comforting tone abating some of the chaos reigning in his mind. Geralt gently tugged the bard to him, letting him decide how close he wanted to get.

Had he not been in the throes of a panic attack, Jaskier would have found himself marveling at how considerate and permissive the older man was acting. Something like this was bound to happen only once in a blue moon.

Unfortunately, the tempest raging in his head didn’t leave room for much thought, only small immediate understandings; like how Geralt himself felt like steady safe ground, and Jaskier was tearing at the seams from the sheer intensity of the emotional tremors afflicting his mind.

He needed that sense of security and refuge that the older man seemed to exude, so he didn’t really think much on it as he found himself staggering forward and slumping boneless against the Witcher’s chest. Jaskier hid his face in the curvature of his neck, in that point where it met his shoulder, arms caged between his own body and the other man’s front.

His breath was still coming in short gasps that he drowned against the Witcher’s pale skin, his heart seemingly wanting to beat out his chest and join Geralt’s.

Oh so slowly, almost unsurely, he felt strong arms wrapping around him, creating a cocoon of safety and comfort.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that, Jaskier enveloped in Geralt’s hold as he tried calm his head. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours.

Jaskier’s breath eventually evened out, his heart stopped pounding in his chest long enough for him to be able to hear his thoughts again and that invisible grasp on his throat that crushed his windpipe released its vicious hold on him.

One of Geralt’s hands had moved up to his head, running through his hair in smooth calming motions. The other had stayed on his back, rubbing circles over his doublet. He could hear the staccato of the Witcher’s incredibly slow heartbeat against his ear, a soothing _grave_ drumming a soft lullaby just for him _._

It was the most comfortable Jaskier had felt in a long time.

Geralt didn’t pull away, once again he let Jaskier decide when he’d had enough, surprising the bard with his patient waiting.

Jaskier reluctantly stepped away, Geralt’s arms falling from his back and lowering to his sides immediately, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the Witcher just yet. There were bound to be questions, ones he didn’t want to answer.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice rang out, tentative.

Jaskier was still looking down to his shoes, fidgeting with his hands as he willed his words to come out steady and sure. “Thanks for…” he trailed off, giving a vague wave of his hand. “You know.”

“What happened?”

Jaskier chanced a look at the Witcher. There was a frown firmly planted on his face, but he’d become quite an adept at reading Geralt’s facial expressions by now, for lack of a better alternative, so he knew that that particular wrinkle in his brow translated confusion rather than frustration, and that that slight downturn in his mouth conveyed worry and disquietude.

“Can we not talk about it?” Jaskier asked in a small voice, swallowing dry and looking away again before adding, “Please?”

Geralt was silent at that, but the look on his face betrayed his reluctance to let the subject drop. They stood in silence for a few moments, the Witcher likely debating what the best course of action to take in the current situation was.

Despite his apparent unwillingness to forget the incident, Geralt eventually nodded and didn’t push the issue, walking up to Jaskier and opening the tavern door for him instead.

The bard managed a small smile in thanks and stepped through, feeling Geralt take a place by his side as a gentle hand settled on the small of his back. The smile that the small action elicited was more candid and unrestrained.

They walked back inside the cavern with the Witcher as a comforting presence next to him, the grounding touch that he offered filling Jaskier with gratitude. He knew better than to mention it though.

* * *

The incident changed things between them. Not in an overly obvious kind of way, the changes were subtle. Only there if you knew where to look, and Jaskier did.

It was strange to say the least, nothing like he’d ever imagined the Witcher behaving. Geralt had become more attentive, more readily concerned about his well-being, like if he was tired after a long day of trekking, or if he was getting enough to eat. He started calling for more frequent breaks, always using Roach as an excuse. He even offered to let him ride the mare! ride her!

He started filling his plate with more food whenever they camped outside and he hunted their dinner, more often than not pushing a portion of his own serving into Jaskier’s bowl as he claimed he wasn’t hungry. Which was complete bull, the man ate like pack of ravenous hounds. He never made a big deal of it when Jaskier pointed it out, always brushing off his protests.

He had also become a more fixed presence by the bard’s side, not that they strayed that far from each other before (travelling together did entail certain degree of proximity, after all), but now it was almost like he hesitated to leave Jaskier alone if even for handful of minutes.

They had started sleeping in the same quarters almost invariably (again, not something new in itself, they’d shared the same room many times before as it was the only option in a few inns they had to stop in). But he knew for sure there were other rooms available in some of the places they’d spent the night, which meant that Geralt had specifically asked for only one.

The Witcher was also quicker to intervene whenever a misunderstanding or disagreement involving Jaskier broke out, acting almost like his own personal guard dog. He was even more prone to growl at people who displayed hostility towards the bard.

The newfound protectiveness was… nice. But the reasons behind it left Jaskier feeling pitied and ashamed. He didn’t want Geralt thinking less of him, thinking he was weak or uncapable of fighting his own fights. Even if that was how he felt himself. It made him irritable and uneasy.

He was also waiting for the other shoe to drop. Running into Marko after all those years had been truly disturbing, stirring up all kinds of repressed memories and self-deprecating thoughts.

He knew that Marko was nothing if not persistent. And he had reach; it came with the territory of having a father sitting on the council of Oxenfurt. That had been the reason Jaskier had been forced to uproot his entire life to escape him in the first place. But the following months had been quiet. No whispers or sightings of the son of an influential lord scouring the continent for someone.

It seemed as if he could forget all about the incident and add it to the little boxes in his mind that kept away all the bad memories from _before_.

He should have known better.

* * *

They were passing by Vizima again, Geralt was dealing with a wraith that haunted the newly purchased house of a local wealthy banker, and they expected a sizable reward in orens. The tavern they were currently in was jam-packed of people, loud voices buzzing in the air and ale spilling over from enthusiastically brandished tankards.

Jaskier picked up his lute and headed towards the makeshift stage; might as well capitalize on the good-mood and disposition of the patrons.

All in all, it was a good performance. He managed to get about 8 songs in and enough coin to buy a new set of strings for his lute before needing to take a break, looking for something to wet his dry throat with. He was heading towards Geralt, who had been watching the entire thing from his little corner of the room, propped up against a wall (because he always kept an eye on Jaskier now), when he was intercepted by another man.

His features were handsome, although a bit scarred by what he assumed where years of battle, and youthful, despite having a few years on Jaskier. His face cracked into an open smile as he took on a flirty expression.

“That’s quite a performance, you gave there,” the man praised, making Jaskier preen under the attention. “I must confess that never before have I heard such an appealing voice. Please, let me treat you to a drink.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Jaskier grinned coyishly as the man gestured towards the bar in an invitation. He started to walk forward, accepting the request as he sneaked a look at Geralt. The Witcher… did not look very happy, suffice to say. The powerful frown shot in his direction made the bard hesitate, but the handsome man was still looking at him with an expectant smile, so he followed him to the bar.

He could feel Geralt’s eyes digging into his back as he went though, loudly expressing his disapproval without needing to utter a word. It was something that had developed of late, their capability to communicate using less and less words (not that Jaskier had actually minimized his amount of chattering).

The bard hadn’t really gotten together with anyone since the Marko incident, the fact that he shared a room with Geralt more often than not also presenting an impediment on that regard. But the Witcher had never expressed visible discontentment at his sexual escapades before, merely annoyance when they bred complications that ended up affecting him too. One more thing to add to the list of things that had changed.

He reached the bar just as the other man signaled the barkeep for two drinks.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, turning to Jaskier and extending his hand. “I am Galvost.”

Jaskier shook the offered hand as the barkeeper laid two tankards on top of the counter.

“Jaskier,” he replied with an easy grin, stealing another look at Geralt. The Witcher had been approached by a short brawny man while he wasn’t looking, and was now scowling at whatever he was being told.

“Like the flower?” Galvost chuckled good naturedly, picking up the two tankards and offering one to Jaskier. “I must admit, it suits you.”

Jaskier accepted the presented drink with a flourish and raised it to his lips, taking a sip as Galvost mirrored his actions. Hmm, it must not have been ale, the flavor was distinctively sharper and more herbal. Probably a new cocktail the barkeep had cooked up; not his usual type of drink, but it would do in a pinch. 

He laid the tankard back on the counter, turning to give Galvost his full attention. Geralt was still talking to the short man, with growing irritation judging by the shift in his stance. Jaskier could see them just out of the corner of his eye, and caught the occasional glances the Witcher threw his way.

“So, what is a handsome fellow like yourself doing in a dump like this.” Galvost flirted, his eyes flying up and down as they sized him up.

“Ohh, I’ve a hopeless adventurous spirit. Been travelling the continent for a couple of years now.” Jaskier responded, squinting against the bright candlelight.

“You don’t say. Been travelling with any companions?”

“Yes actually, I’ve been tailing a Witcher,” Jaskier explained, shooting the referred man another look. 

The short man was gesturing at Geralt, pointing outside in frenzied motions. The Witcher clenched his jaw in frustration and looked up at Jaskier with a very reluctant expression on his face. He shot the bard a look that he knew all too well; ‘ _don’t get into any messes while I’m gone_ ’, and Jaskier couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Once he’d gotten the message across, he followed the other man outside, leaving the bard alone in the tavern.

Galvost had started saying something while he'd been distracted looking at Geralt, but he couldn’t hear most of it anyway over the deafening cacophony of the tavern. When had it gotten so loud? The earsplitting noise was starting to give him a headache.

“Sorry, can you repeat that last part,” Jaskier requested at Galvost’s expectant expression, giving a little shake his head to clear a bit of the remaining daze. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I was just saying that if what you were looking for was a hard fuck, you could have found much more agreeable companions than a mutant freak.”

Indignation washed over Jaskier as he stared at Galvost in shock. He reeled back from the sudden sneer forming on the other man’s face, but he couldn’t quite coordinate his feet to move the way he wanted them too.

He stumbled backwards, only saved from tumbling to the ground by the arm that shot out and grabbed him by the elbow. Galvost roughly pulled him to his side, laying a heavy arm over his shoulders and dragging him forward.

Jaskier tried to dig his heels in, but he couldn’t do much to deter the stronger man. His limbs felt weighed down, sluggish, and he kept tripping over them. It felt as if had drank all the liquor in the tavern instead of just the one pint. Something was wrong. His mind was clouded, a thick fog closing in on him. He couldn’t… he couldn’t think straight.

“Ya… Wha—” Jaskier started to stammer, voice dragging at the end. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “I don’ feel… Whadda do t’ me.”

Galvost shushed him, continuing to herd him through the crowd. Why was everyone moving so fast? He could barely keep up.

Was the room supposed to be spinning? Maybe that was just him.

He stumbled through the back entrance of the tavern, Galvost’s grip on him the only thing holding him upright at that point. At least they’d gotten away from the deafening noise.

His head felt so heavy, he just wanted to lie down and close his eyes for a second. Maybe he’d just sleep for a bit, surely Geralt would be there when he woke up, he always was…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier runs into a man from his past with whom he had an abusive relationship. The past abuse is never refered to in detail, only alluded to.  
> The man corners him in an alley and harasses him but Geralt shows up before things get too out of hand.  
> Jaskier has a panic attack and Geralt helps him through it.  
> Jaskier is also later drugged at a tavern. 
> 
> Please let me know if I've missed something you think should be warned about!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New triggers added! Read the end notes for more info!

When he came too, it wasn’t to the familiar shape of Geralt lying in the bed next to him.

His eyelids fluttered against the blinding light that threatened to elevate the pounding ache in his head to whole new levels. He must have been drinking really hard last night to get have gotten this bad, he couldn’t even remember what he’d been celebrating, much less how he’d gotten to wherever he was.

As consciousness began seeping back into him, he realized he was sitting down in an uncomfortably hard chair and had been sleeping in that position for a while too, if the horrible crick in his neck was anything to go by.

Why the hell would have fallen asleep in such a spot? Even in his worse drunken states, he’d always had the presence of mind to crash in an actual bed, even the floor would be more comfortable than this, gods.

He tried to shift in his seat, but something restrained his movement, digging painfully into the meat of his wrists, which he realized where pressed together behind his back. With growing alarm, he became aware that they were tied with rope, the fibers dragging against his skin.

He opened his eyes to a blur of brightness, waiting for his sight to adapt to the scene before him as he battled the splitting headache back.

“Wake now, little bird,” an ugly voice singsonged, stirring up feelings of immediate revulsion and dread in his stomach.

His eyes focused on the blurred figure leaning over him, from where the sound appeared to have emanated from, and a terrifying face came into view.

Sheer panic and terror instantly washed over Jaskier like a bucket of ice water, as he recognized the person looming over him and jerked against his restraints, making the rope scrape harshly against his skin.

Marko laughed viciously at his reaction and Jaskier’s breathing started to pick up as he took in his surroundings. The other man had brought him to a bedroom, elegantly decorated and very immaculate, which meant there were people here somewhere in charge of tidying this manor.

Although, the most likely option was that they were already aware of Jaskier’s presence and simply did not care. Money bought a lot of things, chief amongst them silence. Jaskier knew that better than anyone.

There was a large four poster bed in the corner and a hefty skin rug rested in the center of the room under his feet, griffin made from the looks of it.

Large windows overlooked a gloomy garden that stretched out for a few yards to a thicket of trees that obscured the view further, no other houses or settlements distinguishable in the distance. 

All very ostentatious, not that he’d expect any different from the son of Oxenfurt’s council president. Also all very remote and perfect for Marko to enact his revenge.

With his heart in his throat, Jaskier turned his attention back to the situation at hand. He felt a chill of cold creeping down his spine, joining terror in powering the tremors that shook his body. With a plummet of his stomach, he realized he’d already been dressed down for the occasion. 

Gone were his doublet and pants, removed somewhere in the time he’d been unconscious. The only items he’d been left with were his chemise and his underpants.

He would be worried about something untoward having been done to him while he was out for the count, but he knew Marko better than that. The other man would want him to be awake for any punishments he wished to dole out.

He felt a faint pang of remorse for the cerulean blue doublet he’d been wearing. He hoped they hadn’t thrown the garment out, he quite liked it.

Marko’s voice rang out in a taunt, breaking him out of his train of thought, “You didn’t actually think you could run away from me again, did you?” Dread turned Jaskier’s stomach. “You’ve grown foolish and careless in our time apart.

“Perhaps it’s the company you keep. I needed only ask about the white haired witcher to hear about the bard in tow. Your standards have lowered, little bird.”

Marko had leaned closer as he spat the words out at Jaskier, and the bard had ended up with his back pressed flush against the chair, trying to escape the looming presence.

“Tell me,” Marko said in a mock confidential tone, face melting into a condescending sneer. “Did you let him fuck you?”

Jaskier jolted, eyes widening in shock as a weight dropped in his stomach. Of course Marko knew exactly where to twist the knife to make him feel the most pain. It was all he’d ever done for years; he was an expert at that point, and, despite the bard’s wishes to the contrary, knew Jaskier better than anyone.

The other man continued, “Did you let him split you in two on that mutant cock of his? Is he as much of a beast in the sheets as he in battle with a sword in hand?”

He couldn’t— he couldn’t keep hearing this. He’d rather be forced to prance around nude for Marko’s pleasure than keep hearing those venomous words.

Tears began to well up in his eyes, and he turned his head away from Marko, trying to hide the show of weakness and vulnerability that they presented. He knew Marko would pounce at the opportunity.

The other man carried on relentlessly, “Did you sing your praises to him while he fucked you raw? The way you like?” He grabbed Jaskier’s chin roughly and wrenched his head forward to force him to meet his hatred filled gaze again.

“Did you fall in love, little songbird?” he finished brutally, the words excruciating stabs in Jaskier’s heart.

The bard squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a lone tear spill over and run its course down his cheek, before landing on Marko’s wrist.

The hand grasping his chin slid lower and pressed against his throat, just enough to make it hard to breathe. Jaskier’s eyes flew open.

“You should have known better,” Marko growled before swinging his arm back.

A heavy punch landed on his lower stomach, making the breath wheeze out of him from the force. Pain erupted in Jaskier’s abdomen as he reflexively doubled over in the chair, unwittingly pushing harder against the hand at his throat.

The grip tightened, cutting off the air supply and preventing him from replenishing his lungs with the air he’d just forcibly expelled.

He sputtered and gasped around the block at his throat, hands uselessly spasming at his back and making the rope dig deeper into his skin. Something wet started to trickle down his fingers, but the pain barely registered in his frantic struggle for air.

It felt like his chest was on fire, the flames burning through his lungs and alighting his brain with the desperate need for oxygen. All he could feel was panic, and all-encompassing blinding pain. It consumed him.

His vision started to blur, dark spots emerging at the sides, and he felt himself slip into the quiet numb darkness.

Then, just as his mind started to evade him, the hand at his throat loosened, and air flowed back into his flaming lungs. He sucked it in desperately, scratching the inside of his throat with the force of the act as he chocked and coughed.

“Tell me! Tell me how he fucked you!” Marko’s voice bellowed at him.

“He didn’t!” Jaskier sobbed, still gasping for breath. He couldn’t hold back the tears that ran freely down his face now, an endless torrent pouring from his eyes.

The other man roared at the reply and grabbed the short hair at the nape of Jaskier’s head, harshly yanking it down and jerking his head up with the movement to meet his sneering glower.

Another raise of his arm and Jaskier flinched back, closing his eyes as a smarting slap landed across his cheek.

“Tell me,” he repeated, snarling the words.

“He didn’t,” Jaskier cried, voice breaking as he wept.

A punch was dealt on his stomach, higher up this time. The bard gasped at the pain, folding on himself and tugging against his restraints.

“Try again.”

“He never…” Jaskier whispered, trailing off as he clenched his eyes shut, knowing that nothing he said would stop Marko.

Another blow landed on his side.

“I swear!” a howl.

His chest.

“Please!” a sob.

His gut.

“Marko,” a whimper.

A particularly hard punch to his stomach had him lurching to the side and emptying its contents on the floor. He retched and gagged until his stomach stopped rebelling quite so viciously against him, and slumped back on the chair, defeated.

His mouth tasted like bile, acrid and bitter, with a coppery trace.

He looked down, noting that there was a bit of blood on the sick. He was fairly sure that was from biting the inside of his cheek against the onslaught of punches, though.

A hand grabbed Jaskier by the chin again, roughly tugging his head up.

“I hope you realize I’m not letting you get away so easily this time.” Marko whispered, as if letting him in on a secret. His other hand wandered lower, past his waist, and palmed his flaccid and disinterested cock through the fabric of his underpants.

The action turned Jaskier’s stomach. A thousand nights that reflected this exact moment rushed back to his mind, taunting him in their similarity. He felt trapped, doomed to the same hell he thought he’d escaped all those years ago.

He would have vomited again, but he had nothing left to throw up, so he just gagged and sat in quiet revulsion.

Marko sneered at him before removing his hand and turning his back, walking over to a small end table. He picked up a shiny small dagger and Jaskier’s terrified eyes locked onto the blade, breathing harder as he twisted in his seat.

There was a deep satisfaction in Marko’s eyes as he watched the bard struggle against the rope tying him down. He stopped in front of the chair and leaned down to the younger man’s eyelevel, letting the edge of the knife glimmer in the sunlight. Then, he reached behind him and with a flick of the dagger, the ropes fell from his wrists.

Jaskier had only a second to feel relief before being grabbed by the front of his chemise and shoved to his feet. Marko thrusted him towards the bed and he stumbled backwards, tripping over his feet. The movement pulled all sorts of sore muscles Jaskier didn’t even know he had, making him gasp out in pain.

“Undress and get on the bed,” the other man ordered, loosening the collar of his jerkin.

Jaskier felt his eyes widen in horror, stomach lurching in dismay. He glanced at the bed and shuddered, remembering what it was like to be with Marko. How disgusting and broken it made him feel to be taken like that. He’d given everything up to escape that feeling, he couldn’t do it again. He refused to.

“No,” Jaskier replied, pushing all the strength and determination he possessed into the little word as tried his best to hold his head up high. 

Marko’s fingers froze over the button of his jerkin as he stilled, obviously surprised at the resistance. He jerked his head up to look at the bard, an angry snarl starting to form on his face.

“Strip,” he repeated, voice cold enough to freeze the Yaruga.

Jaskier gulped and, not trusting his voice enough to not crack and betray its thinly veiled weakness, shook his head.

Marko held his gaze in fury and incredulity before charging forward in a whirlwind of rage. Jaskier scrambled back, trying to escape the irate man, but he was still disoriented from whatever they’d laced his drink with, so he didn’t have much reaction time before Marko was on him.

The other man swung his fist back and brought it down with crushing force on his face. Hot white pain bloomed in his nose as he reeled backwards and tripped over the edge of the bed, falling down onto the mattress.

The sharp metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he wheezed. He grabbed at the sheets under him, staining the pristine white fabric with streaks of crimson red.

The pain was getting to be unbearable. His entire body was in a constant state of aching, and the throb in his chest reached new peaks every time he inhaled, forcing him to take only short puffs of breath. He didn’t have the strength or the mindpower to fight Marko off much longer.

Suddenly there was a heavy weight settling on top of him and he opened his eyes to be greeted with the sight of Marko straddling his waist.

His heart jerked in his chest and he raised his hands instinctively to shove the other man off. His hands were easily gripped by the wrists, though, Marko’s fingers digging deep into the abrasions left by the ropes as he pinned them above his head.

Jaskier sobbed in earnest as Marko’s other hand traced down his chest, unbuttoning his chemise. He could no longer breathe normally from how hard his body was shaking, wails and gasps mingling together in an incomprehensible amalgamation of sounds.

Marko finished unbuttoning the garment and pushed it open, trailing a hand across the old faded scars that littered his chest. The other man’s eyes glimmered with perverse satisfaction as he examined them, the leftovers from their time together. They were the one other thing he couldn’t erase, apart from his memories, but not for lack of trying.

His fingers drifted to a nipple then, tugging painfully and making Jaskier whimper.

The hand resumed its circuit and wandered lower, reaching the hem off his underpants. Jaskier tried to buck him off without much success, but he managed to get a leg free from out of under Marko, so he took the opportunity to knee him in the crotch with all the force he could muster.

Marko howled from the unexpected pain, shooting him a furious look. With a roar, he brought his other hand up to where he was pinning down the bard’s wrists, grabbed two of his left fingers and bent them back, _hard_.

There was a loud popping sound and a scream. Jaskier only realized the sound had originated from his own throat when Marko’s mouth crashed down on his and smothered the sound.

Pain burst in his hand, making Jaskier sob miserably against the tongue that slipped inside his mouth. He choked on his own spit, but Marko continued to kiss him, lips coarse and bruising against his own. 

Marko’s fingers slipped down to his underpants again, starting to work on the buttons, and Jaskier gagged. 

The sound of shattering glass and alarmed shouts resonated from the hall.

They both froze, Marko removing his tongue from Jaskier’s mouth to listen to the unmistakable noises of a fight breaking out just outside the room. There were a few more shrieks of pain and the clashing of steel on steel before an ominous silence fell.

Marko tensed above him and, exactly two seconds later, the bedroom door flew apart, breaking from its hinges and crashing against the floor in broken chunks of wood as a figure stormed in.

The first flash of white hair had Jaskier sobbing out the breath he’d been holding in crazed relief.

Geralt halted in place, the frown on his face turning truly murderous as his eyes landed on them. Then, like breaking out of a spell, he stalked forward, raising the bloodied steel sword in his hand.

Marko grabbed him roughly by his unbuttoned chemise and pulled, dragging him to his feet on the floor. He was pressed hard against the other man’s chest as he back peddled from the enraged witcher.

He tripped over his feet as he was hauled back, but Marko’s painfully tight grip kept him upright. Then, he felt the cold sharp touch of steel on the skin of his neck and looked up to see Geralt freezing in his tracks, alarm visible on his face.

Jaskier gulped, feeling a slight sting as the edge of the blade dug into his skin. A drop of something liquid started dripping down his neck and the witcher’s eyes jumped to his throat, nostrils flaring. Blood, then.

Geralt seemed to take in the bard’s state then, eyes flying up and down to assess injuries. Jaskier must have painted quite the picture, judging from the way the witcher’s expression hardened.

The witcher turned his glower to Marko, eyes flashing in fury as he curled his lips back to snarl, “Let him go and I promise you a quick death.”

“You’re in no position to make demands, mutant,” Marko sneered, pressing the blade harder into the bard’s throat as if to punctuate his words. Jaskier’s breath hitched as he felt more blood trickling from the cut. “Throw that sword over to me.”

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. Blinding panic and terror consumed him at the thought of being left with Marko, but he couldn’t bear if anything were to happen to Geralt because of this, because of him. He’d sooner die.

He forced the overwhelming fear of what he was asking for down, and tried his best to shoot Geralt a look that conveyed the message, ‘ _It’s ok, you can leave’._

The witcher understood, Jaskier knew he did; it was clear in the way his frown deepened and his fist tightened almost imperceptibly on the hilt of the sword as he locked eyes with the bard. But, by the subsequent setting of his jaw and avoidance of Jaskier’s gaze, it was obvious he had no intentions of acknowledging the request.

Geralt barely hesitated as he tossed his sword to the floor. It landed with a loud clatter between them, far enough that it forced Marko to walk forward to get it.

The man huffed out in frustration, hissing at the witcher, “Get back.”

Geralt took a few steps back obediently and Marko started to push Jaskier forward, inching towards the weapon.

Jaskier looked up, meeting Geralt’s gaze again. The witcher looked at him intently, urgency and pointedness sharp in his stare.

The bard understood immediately; Geralt wanted a window of opportunity, which would be best created now that Marko was distracted. Time to put those self-defense skills that the witcher had tried (and failed) to grill into him to the test.

Marko’s grip on him loosened as he for reached the sword on the floor, and Jaskier made use of that moment to headbutt the man with all his might and put a hand between his throat and the dagger, just like Geralt had instructed him to once upon a time.

While he was thrown off guard by the blow, Jaskier bended over and twisted away from the man’s grasp. Marko relinquished his hold on him and stumbled back in surprise, hands flying to his nose.

Jaskier staggered sideways, thrown off balance now that he no longer had Marko’s firm grip for support, and tumbled to the floor.

Before he knew what was happening, the witcher had crossed the room and punched Marko so hard in the face that the man had been propelled backwards, crashing into the wall before falling on the ground in an unconscious heap.

Jaskier stared at Marko’s prone form on the floor with disbelief.

It was over, he was going to be ok.

Shock rushed over him, and the reality of the situation abruptly crashed down on him; what had been about to happen before Geralt came crashing through that door. _Oh god_.

A sob escaped his mouth, then another, and suddenly he couldn’t stop. The uncontrollable sobs racked his body as he gasped for breath on the floor, horrible chocking sounds escaping his throat. He could only hear the abnormally loud noise of his pounding heart in his ears, everything else was white noise.

Tears blurred everything in sight, and the world grew to big. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, he was falling down the rabbit hole again. _He hated_ feeling like this.

He brought his knees up to his chest, hiding his head in them as he curled himself up into a miserable ball. Waiting for the world to shrink back to normal size, for him to somehow not feel completely lost and helpless and useless and… a soft comforting presence settled against his back.

Warm limbs wrapped around him, sheltering him from the turbulent world outside and gently tugged backwards, cuddling him against a solid yet soft wall that molded itself to him. The raging storm started to abate, his mind clearing and his thoughts becoming less and less frenzied as they were lulled away, as if on a small sailboat rocking in the ocean breeze.

He gained enough clarity of mind to realize that the soothing movement wasn’t all in his head, he was actually being _rocked._ The movement was soft and slow, but it was there.

He raised his head from where he’d hidden it in his knees, seeing that strong legs were bracketing his body, and that that soft warm wall he was propped against was in fact a chest. Geralt’s chest. Geralt, who was actually rocking him slightly, back and forth, and holding him like he was something precious.

New, but altogether different tears started to run down his face, and Geralt hummed, a soft concerned rumble deep in his chest that Jaskier could feel reverberating against his back. A hand moved up from where it was hugging the bard’s front to run through his hair in comforting motions.

Jaskier cried silently, tiny broken sobs escaping his lips at times as he pressed himself back into the warm chest behind him, chasing that calming feeling.

Geralt held him all throughout it, patient and consoling. Held him until the tear tracks dried on his face, until the sobs that racked his body abated to faint trembles, and he no longer felt like the world was in imminent danger of falling to pieces around him, until he could breathe again.

Then, the witcher slipped his arms under him and slowly raised him up, cradling him against his chest as he got to his feet. Jaskier curled up in his hold, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

A few seconds later he was carefully deposited at the end of the bed and raised his head to peer up at Geralt in alarmed confusion.

“Give me a second, ok?” the witcher asked, a soft expression on his face.

Jaskier swallowed and nodded, watching Geralt closely as the witcher turned around and walked over to where Marko laid sprawled out on the floor. 

Geralt grabbed him by the arms and dragged his body across the floor to the chair Jaskier had been tied to minutes before. Then, he hauled him up and dropped him on top of it unceremoniously, grabbing some excess rope to tie him up with.

He looped it around his body, giving several tight looking twists of the cord around him with what looked like a little too much excess force.

Once he was done, he turned his back on Marko and walked back over to Jaskier.

“You’re gonna leave him there?” Jaskier found himself rasping out, hating how wavering and tiny his voice had come across. The sound grated against his scratched throat as he talked, and he winced in discomfort.

“I’ll come back for him later,” Geralt explained as he gathered Jaskier in his arms again. The bard felt a bit flustered by the action, but didn’t protest, choosing to hide his face in the witcher’s chest instead.

“Let’s get you out here,” he heard Geralt say softly with the ear that wasn’t pressed against his chest.

Geralt carried him away, through the doorway that lacked a door, and down the hall. Away from that room, and from _that man_.

It was almost too easy to bury his head, close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else, and that the witcher was holding him for entirely different reasons.

Geralt’s arms were comfortable, and he was just _really tired_. Tired of Marko, tired of pain, tired of being awake. He wanted out.

He felt sunlight hitting his face and realized they were outside. Good.

Geralt came to a stop then, and Jaskier peaked his head out to see that they had reached Roach. The mare raised her head and nickered in greeting.

“You feeling ok to ride?” Geralt asked, looking down at him. 

Jaskier nodded and found himself being lifted and deposited on top of Roach as if he weighed next to nothing. The witcher’s abnormal physical strength still took him by surprise sometimes.

Geralt climbed up after him and Jaskier settled against him, nuzzling into the solid chest behind him as the older man’s arms wrapped around his sides to hold onto the reigns at the front.

The witcher urged the mare into a relaxed canter and they rode way, putting the mansion, and hopefully that chapter of Jaskier’s life, behind them.

* * *

Geralt took Jaskier back to the inn where they’d been staying in. Thankfully not the same place that they’d taken him from, he didn’t want to step foot in that tavern again.

He hadn’t seen Galvost slipping anything into his drink – he knew better than to accept randomly offered drinks without paying attention to that, it hadn’t been the first time he’d been drugged, after all – so, he knew that they’d payed the barkeeper off to do it himself.

He’d just like to forget the last hours had ever happened, but Geralt was making that a bit difficult. Not that he was doing anything wrong. No, the witcher was being perfectly understanding and sensible. Very noble.

Which just served as a constant reminder of the terrible horrible no good thing that Jaskier was trying his absolute best to forget about.

When they’d reached the building Geralt had taken him in his arms again, pulling him down from Roach to rest against his chest. Jaskier muttered a few protests, not wanting to attract further attention to his pathetic state, but Geralt simply shushed him and carried him inside.

He hid his head in Geralt’s chest again, this time to conceal his flaming cheeks at the way all conversation inside the tavern ceased at their appearance. Although it would probably be hard to tell over the bloodied swelled mess that was his face right now.

He listened to Geralt ask who he presumed was the innkeeper for a bath to be drawn as well as for a few bandages and the sort to be brought up. Then Geralt blessedly carried him upstairs, away from the dozen of eyes trained on them.

He found himself being placed on a bed soon after, with Geralt kneeling before him.

He reached forward and tilted his chin up, studying the small cut in his neck. 

Once he was sufficiently satisfied that he wouldn’t bleed to his death from the nick or something equally unlikely, his hands moved up, prodding at the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier let out a hiss, flinching as the touch evoked a new wave of pain.

“Is it broken?” he rasped, grimacing at the thought. He prided himself on his good looks after all, and a crooked nose might do wonders on a face like Geralt’s (adding to that whole brutish charm situation he had going on), but it would very much not work on his complexion.

“No, just bruised,” Geralt reassured him, letting his fingers drop from his face. “Can I take this off? I need to check for injuries.” He gestured at the bloodied fabric that used to be his chemise.

Jaskier looked down and swallowed. Geralt would see the scars, but he didn’t see how he could possibly refuse.

“Ok,” he whispered, slipping out of the garment.

Geralt, to his credit, didn’t let much of his surprise show through on his face. There was the slight raising of eyebrows and slackening of his jaw, followed by a sharp glimmer of anger in his golden eyes, but he quickly recovered, reaching forward to start prodding at his ribs.

Jaskier took in a sharp breath when the witcher pressed at a tender spot, wincing at the pain, but the other man carried on in his quest to discover every possible injury that the bard might have sustained.

There was some more nudging and poking at his abdomen area, with Jaskier giving the occasional yelps of pain and groans when a particular sore area of skin was pressed.

When he was done with that part of his anatomy, Geralt took his arms and inspected the cuts and abrasions on his wrists, tsking under his breath.

He studied the cut that had been left across the palm of his good hand when he’d put it between the dagger and his throat and then picked up his other hand to examine. While doing so, he brushed against the swollen potatoes that were two of his left fingers and Jaskier couldn’t hold back the loud yelp that escaped his lips.

He let go immediately.

“Those are broken,” Geralt informed unhelpfully. Yes, Jaskier was well aware that they were broken, he’d been present for the occasion. “We’ll have to splint them.”

Jaskier nodded and the witcher got up to his feet, walking over to where he kept his gear, presumably to fetch something to splint his broken fingers with. He returned a few seconds later with some wooden rods and some bandages and set about wrapping the digits.

“C’mon,” he said, putting his arm down carefully when he was done. “The bath should be ready.”

Jaskier nodded and tried to get to his feet before Geralt got any ideas about carrying him again, but he sorely miscalculated how much it would hurt to be vertical again.

He nearly doubled over, but the witcher reached out promptly to steady him. He found himself being lifted into the older man’s arms again.

Jaskier groaned, “I can walk, you know? I’m not an invalid.”

Geralt grunted in response, adding only, “This way’s faster.” 

Jaskier didn’t really have a reply for that, it was true after all, so he quietened as Geralt carried him over to the bathroom.

The bathtub was large and sturdy looking, probably big enough to accommodate two people, not that Jaskier was giving a lot of thought to that. He was actually realizing with growing dread that he was too fucked up to bathe on his own, and that bathing generally involved nudity.

Now, it was no secret that he found the witcher attractive and had been hopelessly and incurably in love with the fool for years. It was clear as day to everyone and anyone they came across except to the bloody white wolf himself, who inconceivably remained none the wiser.

As such, he would very much not be minded to be treated to a show of the other man’s gloriously sculpted body, and normally he had no reservations about being naked himself (he could make up stories about his scars after all). But, right now, he felt like yesterday’s trash.

Geralt set him down on the floor, keeping an arm around his chest to help support him, so he didn’t go tumbling down face first in the water, he assumed. It would be a pity to have survived this long only to go drown in a bathtub of some backwater inn.

Not that there was anything wrong with the bathtub. It was a very nice bathtub. Better than a lot of the ones they’d come across while travelling the continent together. It even had warm water, judging from the faint clouds of vapor that still emanated from it.

Geralt seemed to sense his nervousness, as he said in a gentle voice, “You can keep your shorts on, if you want.”

Jaskier gulped and nodded, finding himself suddenly unable to meet the older man’s gaze.

Geralt helped him get into the tub, dragging a chair to sit beside him once he was settled in it. The way the fabric of his underpants clung to his skin where it wasn’t submerged was a bit uncomfortable, but it was preferable to being stark naked. He felt too exposed as it was. 

The water was already becoming soiled from his presence in it, acquiring a reddish tinge to it.

“Close your eyes,” Geralt said from his left, holding a bucket up.

Jaskier did as he was asked and felt the cascade of water being poured over his head, washing away the mixture of blood and snot that had dried on his face and matted his hair.

Then, surprisingly gentle hands started kneading his scalp, scrubbing and brushing out the tangles. It was nice.

So very nice that he found himself unwinding completely at the witcher’s ministrations, melting against the sides of the tub in exhausted bliss.

He was so very tired, which was strange because he’d spent the majority of the previous hours unconscious. Maybe it had something to do with what they’d drugged him with? He didn’t know.

What he did know was that the next time he woke up, he wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Marko again. He was with Geralt now, and there was something in him that automatically relaxed at the notion; some instinctive innate knowledge that the witcher would protect him.

So, he offered little to no resistance at the deep drowsiness that took over him as he drifted off into the sweet promise of numbness that sleep entailed.

* * *

Jaskier stirred on the bed, lashes fluttering as the noise of a door closing softly roused him from his slumber. He opened his eyes, gaze landing on the witcher as he entered the room.

“Geralt?” he croaked, the sound that escaped his throat still unbearably scratchy and pitiful as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

His wrists caught his attention then, as he noticed they were wrapped in clean white bandages, and so where other injuries in his body, now that he noted. Geralt must have tended to them after he fell asleep in the bath.

And gods, wasn’t that embarrassing. He’d actually nodded off while Geralt bathed him. Like a _small child_.

The witcher crossed the distance between them, sitting down on the bed by his side. Jaskier took him in, the bruises on his knuckles and the small smudged stains of blood on his clothes cluing him in to what the witcher had been up to while Jaskier slept.

The look on Geralt’s face was horribly sad, his eyebrows squashed together in a somber frown as the gold in his eyes glimmered with faint smothered traces of ire.

_Oh_.

“How much do you know,” Jaskier attempted to ask as he looked down from Geralt’s eyes. It came out as a barely audibly whisper, but Geralt had a deeply attuned sense of hearing, being a witcher and all.

“Enough,” was the other man’s simple response, spoken in a too gentle tone of voice.

Jaskier gulped, staring fixedly at the little stain in the sheets that looked mysteriously like an endrega. He found himself suddenly unable to meet the witcher’s eyes.

Shame and dismay surged through him and he shrank back on himself, wishing for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

A hand gently grasped his chin, tilting his head up and making him to meet the other man’s gaze. 

“I’ve dealt with it. You’ll never have to see him again,” Geralt assured him, a firm look on his face.

Jaskier found himself hypnotized by the liquid gold in those eyes, by the intensity they were carrying. The degrading feeling that consumed him was soon replaced by heat pooling deep in his belly, as Geralt’s touch lingered on his jaw. 

The fierce protectiveness and determination in the pools of yellow made Jaskier’s breath hitch in his throat. He found he suddenly wanted to some ill-advised things, like lean forward and close the gap between them.

Well, Jaskier’s impulse control had never been that good to begin with. It was an infamous trait of his, actually, and also the reason he found himself travelling the continent with a witcher in the first place. So really, it wasn’t like Geralt could blame him. Especially considering how besotted with the older man he had been for _years_.

He surged forward, catching the surprised widening of Geralt’s eyes as he brought his lips down on the witcher’s.

It was… liberating. He’d been thinking about this for longer than he’d like to admit, and finally doing it was nothing short of invigorating. Geralt’s lips were warm and improbably soft against his. It filled him with giddiness, that was until he felt himself being softly tugged back and looked up at Geralt to receive a deeply concerned and confused look.

His stomach plummeted and he immediately averted his gaze from the witcher as he felt tears well up in his eyes.

_Oh gods,_ what had he _done_? Why did he have to go and mess up the last good relationship in his life? What if Geralt left him? He couldn’t – oh gods – he couldn’t bear that.

He’d thought being at Marko’s mercy again was bad, but losing Geralt? He would have gladly endured a few more days with Marko in a torture dungeon to keep that from happening.

He was working himself into another frenzy, he knew it, he could feel it. But he couldn’t stop it.

“Jaskier.” Geralt tried to catch his attention, but Jaskier shrank back from him, eyes darting everywhere but his face. “Jaskier, look at me.”

A hand caught his chin then and forced his head up to meet the witcher’s gaze, a mirror of his action from a few minutes before.

“Hey,” he said in a slight chastising tone. “It’s ok, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jaskier let out a breath of relief at the words, going lax in Geralt’s hold.

“You know you don’t have to do that, right?” Jaskier looked up at Geralt in confusion. What did he mean by that?

He did it because he was lovesick fool, and because the witcher had been acting unbearably nice with him. In a way that almost made it seem like Jaskier wasn’t crazy for having these feelings and hoping that maybe, one day, they might be slightly reciprocated, even if just a tiny bit.

“I would never ask you to—"

“I did it because I wanted to,” Jaskier blurted out, effectively silencing the witcher. Oh well, in for a copper, in for a crown. “Because I’ve been wanting to for a really long time.”

Geralt seemed pretty shocked by the admission, his jaw going slack in surprise. Jaskier made use of the moment to run the fingers of his good hand down the witcher’s face, tracing the angle of his cheekbone and then his jaw, while memorizing the feel of it. Geralt let him.

“But I know I’m not— I’m damaged goods.” The witcher’s hand flew up to his face, covering Jaskier’s own where it rested on the curve of his jaw and stilling it.

“You’re not damaged Jaskier, gods.” Jaskier looked down.

Geralt leaned forward and laid a gentle kiss on his lips, taking his hand down from where it rested against his face and cradling it on both of his. It was such a soft and innocent kiss, it contrasted with every aspect of the older man’s personality, which made it all the more precious.

Geralt pulled back after a few seconds and Jaskier chased after his lips. The witcher chuckled at his eagerness and brought younger man’s hand up to his lips, laying a feathery light kiss down on the palm.

Jaskier watched the scene unfold with a heated gaze, crawling forward to climb into Geralt’s lap.

The Witcher promptly wrapped his arms around him and Jaskier inched up to brush his lips against his jaw, using his good hand to wander lower and fumble with his belt.

Geralt immediately stilled against him, bringing a hand down to halt Jaskier’s.

“Hey, no,” he said, voice bearing no room for discussion.

Jaskier peered up at him in bewilderment.

“What? Why?”

Geralt sighed, “Jaskier you don’t want to have sex with me, at least not tonight. Trust me.”

“I don’t want to be fucked tonight. You’re right. But I can still get you off.”

Geralt’s face did a funny twist at that.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Geralt pinched his nose, drawing in a long breath.

“How about this? We don’t do anything tonight and, in a few weeks, if you still want to, we can talk about it.”

Jaskier stared in protest at the witcher for a few seconds, but the older man seemed pretty set in his ways.

“Fine,” he whined. “I can still kiss you though. Right?”

Geralt huffed out a laugh.

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Jaskier suffers sexual abuse at the hands of Marko, but it never escalates to full blown rape. There are strong hints about it though, so keep that in mind. Mark also roughs Jaskier up. Geralt shows up when things are about to get serious and rescues his bard.  
> I’m not sure if this grants a warning, but I’ll put it in: later in the inn after Geralt tends to Jaskier, the bard tries to have sex with Geralt, but the witcher stops him because Jaskier is still pretty traumatized from the events and sex for him right now is *probably* not the best idea. 
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------
> 
> So, I have once again failed at writing smut. Don’t give up on me, I’ll get there yet. I just didn’t feel like it would be very convincing because of the note I ended this fic on.   
> They didn’t seem ready for it. Jaskier still had a lot to go through in terms of processing his trauma and the like, and jumping into bed with Geralt after just finding himself free of Marko didn’t seem like the brightest idea to me in terms of coping mechanisms. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I rated this M (and will keep the rating) because of the strong themes it broaches.


End file.
